


Whiskey and Anxiety

by dancergrl1



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, F/M, Gen, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Trapeze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 08:12:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14304495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancergrl1/pseuds/dancergrl1
Summary: Philip has always drank. It's an accepted part of his personality. But there was always a darker reason why. When Anne finds out, she helps him channel it much more effectively.





	Whiskey and Anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt started out as "It's 6am, you're NOT drinking." Then it turned into this angsty mess because I punched my ticket on the Angst train and it's only had one stop. (Someone get me off of it?)

Anne found him in the tallest tree outside the circus tent, and called up to him. “Where were you last night?” 

Philip, startled, looked down. Seeing Anne, he chose not to respond. He may have been a little tipsy. He also didn’t remember how he’d gotten up here.

“Philip, come down from there before I come up!” Anne threatened, taking her tone from Charity when she’s yelling at her girls. 

Philip grunted, and began his descent down. Anne could see the hyper focused way he placed his feet, and the way he carefully gave the illusion of being okay. He wasn’t, clearly, but he sure was trying.

When he reached the ground, she almost had to take a step back. He smelled like a brewery. 

“Let’s get you back to your tent, I cannot believe this.” she ranted. She was angry, and Philip knew it. 

“PT said oooh let’s have just one drink, c’mon Phil, just one. One turned into three turned into some wild song and dance interspersed with shots. Then I got a wild idea and I write better up there and then I got thirsty and all I had was the flask so I kept drinking and...yeah…” he trailed off, tired. 

Anne shook her head. He’d worked so hard, only for stupid PT Barnum to take him off the wagon. Of course. 

“Anne...don’t be mad...I chose to partake. It’s my fault.” Philip plead his case, but it fell on deaf ears. 

They arrived back to his tent, and Anne started helping him undress to sleep it off before the show. She could tell he was coming down off the alcohol because every once in a while he’d squint, and when he thought she wasn’t looking he’d press a hand to his head and grimace. She not so kindly pushed him to lie down on the bed, and doused the lights on her way out the door. She was so, so angry.  
\---  
He slept through the show until the next morning. He found Anne slumped in his office chair, and through the haze of his hangover, he felt guilty. He got up, rather uncoordinatedly, and started looking through his cabinets, trying to be quiet. He located his prize and turned around, only to be met by Anne’s steely gaze. Her next words hit him hard.

“It’s six o’clock in the morning, you are not having whiskey.”

He almost wanted to whine at her, but remembered all the work he’d put in. Looking closer at the desk in front of her, he noticed the flask was in front of her, as well as...was that the bottle he kept in the lower drawer? 

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s not healthy, it’s not safe, and it doesn’t only affect you in a vacuum, Philip. It affects me, and the other performers. It affects our work, which affects our audience.” She left everything on the desk and stalked out.   
\---  
Philip hid in the office the rest of the day. He was embarrassed, he was angry, and he wanted nothing more than to take another drink. Just to take the edge off. 

He knew, however, that wasn’t a good idea. He was so, so close to not needing it anymore. Anne was so proud of him. He liked the way he was without the alcohol. He enjoyed living life and remembering what happened. Needing to get away from the temptation, he ran out of his office. He couldn’t do it. He wandered around for a while, trying to distract himself. Somehow, he ended up on the trapeze platform. He’d always liked heights. He supposed that was the reason he’d taken to climbing trees so easily. He’d always been light, and nobody ever looked up when they were looking for him. He mindlessly coiled and uncoiled a rope, keeping his hands busy. His mind was reeling, like it always did when he wasn’t drinking, and he wished he had some way to quiet it. 

He stewed in his own thoughts, not really caring how much time had passed. He’d given himself rope burn, keeping that rope coiled around his fingers and tugging when his rushing thoughts got the better of him. It was WD who finally found him. 

“Anne’s been looking for you.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, but it was still there. 

“I wasn’t hiding. My brain won’t turn off.” His response was low, despondent. 

“I’ll send her up here.” WD slipped away before Philip could protest. 

Philip groaned. He didn’t want to have to talk to her about this. Not right now. 

A soft hand brushed over the back of his neck. “Philip?” He closed his eyes in response. He didn’t want to deal with this. 

Anne looked him over. He looked a sight. Clothes rumpled, hair mussed, and his face was long, drawn, and tired. She caught sight of his hands, and gasped. “Philip...your hands!” she exclaimed. 

Philip shrugged. He’d tuned out the pain by now. 

“Philip...talk to me.” He shrugged, but met her eyes. She saw the anxiety written in them. “Please?” she implored. 

“Brain won’t stop talking. Won’t stop...rushing around,” he whispered. Shame crossed his face at the admission, as if there was something he wasn’t telling her. She read between the lines. 

“The drink slowed it down, didn’t it?” Her tone was gentle. 

Philip nodded. “It made it manageable. I channeled the rest into writing.”

Anne held him tightly. She felt him relax. “It’s alright. Alright, it’s ok. It’s alright, we can fix this. Together. But promise me, no more.”

He shook his head. “Promise,” he murmured.

They stayed that way for a long time.   
\---  
Anne supported Philip on the way back to his tent. He preferred it there. His apartment made him too easy to find. He collapsed onto the cot, kicking his shoes off. He turned away from Anne. He just wanted to be alone. 

He should’ve known better. Anne sat next to him. 

“Philip,” she called warmly. Philip wanted nothing more than to roll into her, hide, like he was a child again. 

Anne was worried. He’d never discussed this with her. She knew that when her brain was whirling, she threw herself into training. It focused her. It was worth a shot, she figured. She would try it tomorrow. Tonight, she needed to clear his head. 

She looked at him again. She could feel the misery and anxiety radiating off of him. She ran a hand through his hair, and he melted. 

“Why?” He whispered. 

“Why what?” 

He swallowed. “Why me...why are you still here...just...why?” His words seem to choke him. His hands twitch towards his face, and he instead digs desperate nails into his wrists. 

She wants to cry, but one of them has to keep themselves together. She pulled his arms away from his body, and he moaned in protest. “No, Philip,” she states forcibly. 

He begins to cry in earnest, a release a long time coming. She whispers to him. “I’m here because I love you. You are the one I was meant to find.” She wasn’t sure if he heard her. 

“No one can say what we get to be.” She hears the hesitance in his voice, and she waits for him. His words break her heart. “Right?”

“Never, we are who we’re meant to be.” 

“Stay?” His voice is small, and broken. 

“Of course.” 

They sleep.  
—  
The next morning, Anne wakes to Philip desperately writing, surrounded by crumpled papers. “Philip?” She asked. 

He was pulling at his hair, muttering incoherently. 

“Philip!” She exclaimed. She rushed over and took his hands in hers. The rope burns were more irritated than before. 

“Anne, please…” he begged. 

“No. Come with me.” She dragged him through the grounds. They were in the middle of the ring, and she ordered Philip to take off his shirt, vest, and shoes. 

Without telling him what she was doing, she showed him multiple stretches, focusing on his arms. She rigged up a hoop, and raised it a few feet off the floor. She pointed to it. “Sit,” she stated. 

Philip balked. “Anne, you can’t be serious.” 

“Philip, trust me. Sit.” 

He hesitantly sat in the hoop like he’d seen her do. He yelped when he looked down and saw the floor rising away from him. “Anne!” 

Anne laughed lightly. “Philip, you’re alright. Hook your knees around the bottom, and flip yourself over.”

“What!” He yelped again. 

“Trust me?” She implored. 

Philip shrugged. He had nothing to lose. He closed his eyes, and hung from his hands and knees on the hoop. He refused to let go. 

“Philip, let go.” It was like she’d read his mind. 

“NO WAY!” He yelled. 

“Trust me.” It was becoming a common phrase. 

He let go, and let himself hang. He felt his thoughts slow, and the blood rush to his face. “Now how do I get down?” Anne walked him through getting back into a sitting position. 

He hit the ground with a grimace. “Thank you,” he whispered. He finally was calming down, feeling his thoughts begin to organize themselves.   
—  
It became normal. Whenever his thoughts began to rush, and the anxiety began to crawl through him, Anne would teach him something new. He began to learn, and he relished in the feeling of not having thoughts chasing each other around his brain. 

They often sit in the stands afterwards, enjoying the silence of just existing within the same space. They rarely speak, just enjoying the other’s presence. Anne often has questions trapped behind her lips, so many things she wants to ask. But she recognizes Philip’s need to reflect and gather his thoughts together before any discussion happens. 

Like most of their life, it’s not society’s view of normal. 

But it’s theirs.

**Author's Note:**

> Please review!


End file.
